


A Smidge of Sorcery

by Tarek_giverofcookies, TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: All of us against all of them, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Apothecary!Crowley, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Broken Bones, Canon Typical Alcohol Consumption, Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), DIWS CW for blood, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Hospitals, Let's make our own side, Lots of lovely glowing magic, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period Typical Violence, She's also read too much Discworld your honour, Smooching, Spellwriter!Aziraphale, The writer went feral with the worldbuiding, Use Your Words, Violence, War, With Elizabethan England undertones, injuries, kids don't try heresy at home, leeches, temporary though, war veteran!Aziraphale and Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28809888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: An absent queen, a lost prince and civil war on the horizon.And a broken magic door that, if not fixed, could end the world.Only sorcery can save it. But where in the kingdom can two people be found who are prepared to join their power and perform such a dangerous and heretical magic?Aziraphale and Crowley never planned to save the world, but they are very good at saving each other. But as their pasts come back to haunt them, can the side they've made together survive?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 67
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Scabiosa columbaria

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Do It With Style Reverse Bang. Words by TawnyOwl95 art by Tarek_giverofcookies
> 
> Tawny: Tarek! Thank you so much for the inspiration and letting me go crazy with your original premise. It's a pleasure working with you.
> 
> Tarek: I've wanted to draw something magic for a long time and I think Tawny and I went a bit feral in the best way. 
> 
> A big thank you to the DIWS server peeps for encouraging and cheerleading. Especially lovely betas  
> [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap)  
> [Thyra279](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279)  
> And [Ludzik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludzik/pseuds/Ludzik)
> 
> Extra CW for references to suicide. Romeo is a bit dramatic and Crowley is not impressed.

__

**_Scabiosa columbaria (Lesser Field Scabious/Devil’s bit) (ruled by Mercury. Very effective for coughs, shortness of breath and all other diseases of the breast and lungs. Resulting cordial can be a useful deterrent for love sick idiots - Taken from the case book of Anthony J. Crowley, Apothecary.)_ **

Aziraphale held tightly to his hat brim and focused on the small, circular window of stained glass just behind Dr. Gabriel's right ear. He tried not to fidget. The glass was a depiction of the _Ethereal College of Spellwrights and Incantors_ coat of arms, and the light filtering through it created trembling spots of colour flickering over the corner of the unnecessarily large desk that Gabriel, the head of the college and member of the Celestial Court, had ordered constructed in his office. 

"Hmm." Gabriel turned over one of the pages of spells Aziraphale had written and tapped his lip with the pad of his index finger. "Huh."

Aziraphale tried not to fidget with his hat brim. He failed. Gabriel didn't look up, but his shoulders tensed. The golden eagle resting on its perch behind Gabriel's chair ruffled its feathers, keen eyes blinking in annoyance at Fluffy, the small calico cat, draped around Aziraphale's neck. She flexed her claws, the sharp points plucking at his robe and the bristling hair of her back tickling his cheek. Aziraphale soothed her with a hum. It soothed him too, by default.

Gabriel paid them no mind, but the Queen's portrait, hanging in pride of place on the wall to Aziraphale's left, gazed down on his anxiety with wide knowing eyes and a mysterious smile. The expression of the lion sitting by her chair gave nothing away either. 

Eventually, Gabriel lifted his head. His smile was bland, but his eyes swept over Aziraphale curiously. "Interesting," he said. 

"Which one, ah, in particular?" Aziraphale fed his hat brim through his hands and resisted the urge to rock on his heels.

"All of them. You've been studying linguistics again," Gabriel accused. 

"Well, I mean there are so many words in so many other languages, and words that just don't have a direct translation. Seems a shame to let them go to waste, and it saves time…" 

"And it's not the purity of the Queen's own words, sport," Gabriel said. 

"Well, no…" 

"And how are our casters supposed to be aware of the nuances of meaning which could have unfortunate results if used incorrectly? Your last guild membership exam springs to mind." Gabriel laced his fingers together on the desk and leaned forward, eyebrows lifting to further make his point. 

"Ah." Aziraphale's hat brim really was going to be twisted all out of shape by the end of this meeting. "I can assure you I have studied the languages used in those particular spells extensively and conversed with a number of native speakers to ensure proper meaning. And the spell I used in the exam did work at home." 

"Why would you even bother to study other languages?" Gabriel’s smile became indulgent, but still didn’t reach his eyes which continued to fix Aziraphale in place. "Especially after your bilingual spell made it rain inside the exam hall. You drenched half the faculty and the bursar is still in bed with a cold." Gabriel tilted his head, pouting in sympathy. The eagle tilted her head too. She looked rather like she was considering Aziraphale for dinner. 

"I did fill the font with water," Aziraphale persisted. "Which was the purpose of the exercise." His confidence faltered. "I don't perform well in public."

"Where you can be heard. Which is rather unfortunate considering that the proper functioning of the spells requires them to be spoken out loud." Gabriel made a moue with his mouth and turned back to the pages of spells. 

"Yes, well, I will endeavour to do better next time." There'd been something odd about the magic in that room though. Something slippery. Aziraphale was sure the threads of it had been less cooperative than usual. 

"Hmm," Gabriel said. 

Aziraphale smiled with false brightness. It had probably been nothing. Just his nerves. 

"I'll take these three." Gabriel waved the pages in the air. "If you can redraft the others using the Queen's language come back and we'll talk again."

"Right, yes, thank you." Aziraphale darted forward to snatch the rejects from Gabriel’s desk. 

Gabriel pulled open his desk drawer and began counting out coins. "Maybe save these up and get some better robes. You're looking quite the harlequin, and we do require a certain presence from our college members, you know what I'm saying?" 

"Yes of course, thank you, yes." Aziraphale scooped up both the coins and slipped them into his shoulder satchel. 

When Aziraphale glanced up again, Gabriel was examining something else on his desk. He fluttered his fingers in Aziraphale’s direction. “Off you go.”

“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale shuffled backwards to the door. Fluffy's tail twitched and her whiskers quivered. 

Visiting with Gabriel always left them both irritable. Still, it was all over now. Aziraphale reached for the door handle. 

"One more thing, Aziraphale,” Gabriel called out.

"Yes, Doctor?" Aziraphale half turned, loath to release the door handle and completely give up on his imminent escape. 

"Are you still…" Gabriel's mouth twisted. "Fraternising with that apothecary?" 

Fluffy's claws sunk straight through Aziraphale's robe and into the flesh of his shoulder. Her hiss drowned out his whine. Gabriel pretended not to notice. The eagle, however, spread her wings, neck extending forward and squawked. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked with all the nonchalance he could drag together under pressure. It wasn't enough to dampen the joy bubbling behind his ribs at the apothecary's name. 

Aziraphale caught the eye of the Queen's portrait and tried to reign in what he was sure looked like a dopey grin. 

"Is that the fellow's name?" Gabriel asked.

Aziraphale nodded rather too enthusiastically. He swallowed, tried not to fidget.

"Him then. Are you? Fraternising?" 

Aziraphale glanced around the room, eyes fixing on everything but Gabriel’s cooly handsome face. "His place of business is opposite mine. We're…" Aziraphale licked his lips. "Friends."

This time the claws digging into his shoulder were very deliberate. Aziraphale bit his lip hard. Fluffy's accusatory stare bore into the side of his face. 

"Friends?" Gabriel asked. 

Aziraphale nodded, smiled. 

Gabriel sat back in his chair. "See, now that doesn't help your college applications either, sport. The fine ethereal craft that is our mistress is an unadulterated art form. We don't want it being diluted and corrupted by anything so grubby as working with plants. Strains of magic mixing is sorcery, Aziraphale. Sorcery is heresy, Aziraphale. It weakens your soul, and if you get caught the consequences will not be pleasant."

Indeed. The last convicted case of sorcery had been about a hundred years ago. The executions were messy and drawn out. Aziraphale had gotten very drunk after reading about them, but had comforted himself that the purpose of the sorcery in that instance had been treason which was, he hoped, the reason for such a thoroughly awful sentence. 

"Quite." Aziraphale's grip on the door handle tightened. 

Gabriel blew air out through his mouth in a sigh. The eagle hopped onto the desk and began to nibble the short hair above his ear affectionately. Gabriel shifted his head away. 

"I tell you what, Aziraphale," Gabriel said, absently running a finger along the eagle's neck. "Craft me a spell to find someone, someone who doesn't want to be found. Someone who has their own magical capacity to conceal themselves. Draft that for me, in the Queen's language, mind you, and if it's any good I'll talk to the faculty about setting up another exam for your full college membership."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "If I may just…" 

"Ask a question? No. Bring the first draft here in two days and tell no one. Especially not that friendly apothecary of yours."

"Oh, he's not _mine…"_

"Are you still here, Aziraphale?" 

"Right, yes, Doctor, thank you. So be Her will," he added with a quick bob in the direction of the Queen’s portrait. 

Gabriel mumbled the ritual nicety in return and went back to his work. 

Aziraphale fled Gabriel’s office, shutting the door quickly behind him. 

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” Fluffy growled in Aziraphale’s ear as he hurried down the stairs. 

Short, Pale and Pimply was starting to make a nuisance of himself. He’d wandered into the apothecary shop, with his fine silk doublet and trailing lace cuffs, waving a handkerchief around like a pennant and crying out about defying stars. Crowley had fully intended to allow him his rant because it never paid to interrupt the rich clientele that were brave enough to venture into the less than salubrious district of Eastgate. Then the boy had reached the point of his visit and asked for poison. Crowley's last nerve had promptly snapped and he'd told him to get lost. This was met by an amused snort from Beardy Man, the only other apothecary customer, who up until this point had been regarding the stuffed alligator Crowley had in the window, as though it held the secret to his soul. 

Short, Pale and Pimply merely blinked at Crowley while his brain tried to process what was clearly a refusal. Poor, entitled little brat probably wasn’t confronted with them much. 

And didn’t that just make Crowley’s heart bleed?

“I said,” Short, Pale and Pimply raised his voice and spoke slowly, “I see thou art poor.” A clinking bag of fine leather was dropped on the counter. His voice dropped to a conspirator’s whisper as he leaned over the counter. “Let me have a dram of poison.”

Crowley folded his arms. All this excess of emotion wasn’t good for the plants that grew on more or less every flat surface of the shop. If they had to put up with this dramatic tragedy they’d be jittery for weeks. If they had to put up with any more of Crowley's annoyance, they'd be worse. They'd already been out of sorts for a while, and Crowley was no closer to working out why. 

“I said, get lost.” Crowley put some extra bite in his words. He probably would be considered poor by this boy’s standards, but just because he’d set up shop in one of Eastgate's infamous courtyards, where any and all human temptations could be found for the right price, didn’t mean he could be bribed. Well, he could, but not by this obnoxious whelp. It was a matter of principle. 

The boy frowned. “But, but, famine is in thy cheeks. Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes. Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back…” He fluttered the handkerchief at Crowley to illustrate his point. 

Crowley laughed. “Yeah, alright, I’m a bit on the lean side, but I was scrubbing out the distillery when you came in causing a ruckus, and you don’t wear your best clothes for that, let me tell you. The point is I’m not selling you poison, kid.” Crowley braced his hands on the counter top, leaning forward so he could peer over his glasses and directly into the boy’s eyes. “Whatever feels like the end of the world now is going to pass. Give it a few weeks before you get all dramatic, aye? I’m sure the young lady, or whoever they are, will write back to you eventually. Probably a bit busy right now, what with the fighting kicking off to the north again, and all that.”

The boy blinked again, his handkerchief dabbed the corner of his eye. The back of his other hand rested on his pale forehead. “Alas, my lady’s body sleeps, and her immortal soul with angels now lives. So, I say again sir, give me poison!”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue. The boy’s lip twitched in an effort to hold back the tears. He stamped his foot. “Sell me poison! Or I will scream!“

“Fine!” Anything for a quiet life. Crowley turned to the shelves of jars and bottles behind the counter and picked out the one with the darkest, thickest most vile smelling liquid he could. It practically oozed as he dispensed a hefty portion of it into a small clay jug for transportation. 

“Put this in any liquid and drink it off.” 

The boy nodded furiously. Crowley slid the jar across the counter with one hand and pulled the bag of coins towards him with the other. The boy secreted the jar about his person and waited. Crowley lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve just made me sell you a fatal poison and you’re waiting for change? For the third time, get lost, kid.”

The boy fled the shop, banging the door behind him. Beardy gave Crowley a look that managed to be both accusatory and heartbroken. 

“What?” Crowley snapped. “It was cough syrup.” 

Beardy grinned, all sharp clean teeth surrounded by sandy beard. His eyes were bright with mirth and oddly coloured. Still laughing, he took himself away too, without making a bloody purchase. Crowley leaned forward over the counter top, resting his head on his crossed arms. “Is today going to get any worse?” He turned his head so that he could peer out through the window, between the stuffed alligator’s legs, and to the shop across the narrow street. The shop with the old wooden shelves that always needed dusting, and the stacks of books on every flat surface. The smell of old paper, tea and magic ingrained in every porous fabric. 

Just thinking of it made Crowley’s existence warmer at the edges. It was like the blood in his veins had turned to honey. 

Ridiculous, sappy thought. Crowley sighed. And he thought he'd been pathetic when he'd believed his love _wasn't_ requited. 

“He’s not back yet.” A black snake with a red belly slithered up to the countertop.

“Wasn’t looking was I?” Crowley mumbled. 

“Liar.” Ginny’s dry scales brushed Crowley’s wrist as she worked her way up to rest her head on his shoulder. 

“You’ve been looking too. Seeing as you know he isn’t back yet," Crowley muttered. 

“I have an invested interest in Aziraphale’s presence. You’re less crabby when he’s around.”

“Am not.” Crowley turned his face back into his arms to hide his smile. “Besides, don’t need to look. When he gets back he’ll come straight here, won’t he?”

“Will he?” humour coloured Ginny’s voice. 

“Course he will! Can’t keep away from me now, can he?”

“Then we should put the kettle on to boil. He’s always stressed after meeting Gabriel.”

Crowley lifted himself off the counter. With a move formed from years of practise, Ginny worked her way around his neck, her tail coiling round his arm. “And if you want to put on clothes that make you look less like a pauper I promise not to be sarcastic about it.”

“Oh, don’t you start.” Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Really, Crowley, I’m ashamed to be your familiar with you stomping around looking so _famine cheeked and beggary backed_!” She laughed, tongue flicking out to tickle his ear. 

“Alright!” Crowley pushed open the door to the back rooms of the shop. “I’ll put the kettle on and then I’ll change!”

Not that Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley in his leather apron before. The lazy little bastard would quite often skive off from his own business to sit on the freshly cleaned workbench and chat while Crowley scrubbed the floor. It was nice to have someone to get dressed up for though, and now Aziraphale was most definitely someone Crowley could dress up for. The nerves in his stomach fluttered at the thought. If Crowley did get dressed up a bit they could wander across the bridge later and find one of the late night food stalls at the Oyster Gardens. That could lead to a stroll in the safer parts of the South Walk, maybe kissing by the river.

Yes, kissing was good. And it happened with reassuring frequency now. After all those years carefully circling each other in ever decreasing circles they were now kissing, and kissing with the suggestion that more could be done, perhaps, eventually, when everything wasn’t so new and precious. 

More would be good too, Crowley was sure of it. When they were ready. 

The thump of the shop’s door opening halted Crowley halfway up the stairs. “Damn it! I expected the whelp would at least wait until he got home before drinking the cough syrup.”

“Could be Aziraphale,” Ginny said. “Seeing as you were so certain he’d come here first.”

Crowley made a suitably dismissive noise to that statement, all exhaled air and impatience. There was a distinct rushing to his steps as he clattered back down the stairs and into the shop though.

It wasn’t the boy back. It also wasn’t Aziraphale. Crowley stopped in the doorway, hope shrivelling in his chest. The two men ambling round his shop obviously thought their disguises were cunning. Crowley was surprised the pair of them hadn't stopped by the playhouses in the Oyster Gardens for a pair of fake moustaches. They were the only things missing from the dramatic black cloaks and floppy brimmed hats. They looked like the villains rising from the trap doors in the latest comedic play. 

They stalked around the shop picking up jars and prodding the plants. They were not good news. And the fact that two of the rebel army's dukes had dared to enter the city and visit Crowley was very much not good news for _him_. 

“Hi guys. Long time no see.” Crowley sauntered forward, his heart thrashing wildly. 

“Crawly!” Hastur glanced up from the stuffed alligator’s open mouth. “Friend of yours, was he?”

“Nah, belonged to the person I bought the business from. Customers expect a bit of stuffed alligator. Adds to the ambience of the place.” As he spoke Crowley kept his eyes on both Hastur, and Ligur, who was searching among the herb bundles in the corner. Crowly drifted to the counter, sliding his hand beneath it to check his insurance was still there. 

It was several inches of insurance made of a hard flexible wood with a good, solid leather grip. It looked like a clumsy, blunt instrument but Crowley knew bodies. He knew both how bones worked and where the design flaws were. He knew right where to hit to break something. Ginny’s coils tightened on his arm. Yeah, stupid to go straight to fighting. Best to try and talk his way out of it first. There were two of them after all, and although he’d get in one good whack, that would be all he’d be able to do. 

Aziraphale was the fighter, reluctant as he was to do it. Crowley was generally much better at clearing the mess up afterwards. 

“We hear you’re very good at the hocus pocus,” Hastur said.

“Quite the reputation,” Ligur mused.

Crowley sneered. His eyes flicked to the window. He silently begged for Aziraphale to not come back right now. 

“If it’s something for your complexion you’re after…” Crowley began.

Hastur smiled. It managed to be both sharp and oily. “We need a spell.”

Ginny lifted her head, hissing angrily. Hastur spared her a glance, but turned away ignoring the outburst. 

“Don’t do spells.” Crowley said quickly. “You want a spellwright for that. Clue’s in the name.”

“And I don’t suppose you know where we could find one, do you?” Innocence dripped from Ligur’s every word. “Because there’s that shop opposite. If you don’t want our business we can always ask there…”

Crowley sneered. He very much did not care for the way the pair of them were smiling, like they knew a very good joke but had no intention of sharing the punchline. 

Hastur rested a hand on the counter. Ligur worked his way around the shop, continuing to investigate the wares while keeping just out of Crowley’s line of sight. Ginny watched him though. Her tail flicked back and forth, tapping nervously against Crowley’s arm. 

“He’s not even a member of the ethereal college,” Crowley said. “Complete charlatan.”

“You’d best fix us up a potion then,” Hastur said. 

"That’s not really something a potion can do, guys.” But Crowley's brain was already working through the challenge of it. “I mean. I don’t work for rebels. I’m an upstanding member of the community here.”

Ligur snorted. “You’re one street away from the slums.”

“And I thought you _sympathised_ with our cause. Thought you were chafing under the yoke of an establishment that didn’t care for subjects that questioned its authority,” Hastur said far too smugly.

“Yeah, well, I sympathised right up until I saw what had happened at Tadfield.” Crowley had spent all night up to his elbows in that mess. He'd discovered that it was one thing to put a body back together, putting minds and lives back together took longer. “Doesn’t matter which side I chose, no one really cared about those left in the middle.”

“You always were too soft hearted,” Hastur tutted.

“My _soft heart_ is the reason some of your soldiers are still breathing!” 

Honestly, you'd think some people would just be happy to remain alive without showing their thanks through bribery and extortion. Just because Crowley had occasionally left rebels on the battlefield with a tourniquet and willow for the pain. Or prioritised a rebel with a fatal injury over a wounded Queen's man who just looked messy. Or that he _may_ have looked the other way when prisoners had escaped his field hospital because it did seem a terrible thing to save their lives only to have them hacked into quarters on a public scaffold. 

Just add it to the list of questionable life choices made by Anthony J. Crowley. His hand tightened on the cudgel beneath the counter. His breath sounded too loud in his ears. 

“We need a potion,” Hastur took a bag from his doublet and emptied a small pile of mismatched gold onto the counter. Probably part of a family heirloom once. Now cut up into bullion and weighed, and funding death. “A potion that can help us find someone magical, who doesn’t want to be found."

A cloying sickness rose in Crowley's throat, but he was already weighing up the gold in his head. He wasn’t poor, but he was a shopkeeper and times were hard for everyone right now, what with rumours of the Queen's disappearance and the rebels starting to choke the city supply lines again. 

“I could summon the Watch,” Crowley said weakly, idly reaching up to stroke Ginny’s scales and taking comfort from the weight of her across his shoulders. 

“You could, if you fancied sharing our cell.” Hastur smiled. He nudged the gold closer to Crowley. “It’s a generous offer.”

"Fine.” Crowley put his hand over the gold and was sure another part of his soul crumbled away with the action. “Come back in a few days."

"What? No questions?" Hastur asked.

"Oh, hundreds of them.” Crowley sighed. “But in this case I find I don't want to know the answers." And he wanted them gone as quickly as possible so he could wallow in peace.

"Very wise." Hastur gave Crowley's cheek a cheerful slap. "See you soon, Crowley."

"Very soon," Ligur growled. 

Crowley kept his hand on the cudgel beneath the counter until they'd both slunk away. 

Crowley exhaled, pressing both hands to the counter while he let the anxiousness shake from his limbs. "I didn't mean to rebel. I just hung around with the wrong crowd."

In a church, while Lord Beelzebub had conducted a heretical service, trying to talk directly to the Queen without the intercession of an ordained Messenger. 

Another one for the list of questionable life choices. 

“I don’t think we could have turned them away,” Ginny murmured. “But we do need to make sure they don’t keep coming back, don’t we?”

“How do we do that? Can’t hand them over to the Watch without them knowing what we’ve done too.” Crowley’s nails dug into the counter’s wood. 

“Crowley, we can’t let them keep doing this…”

“I know, I know, but, what if they do know about Aziraphale? What if _he_ finds out about me? If anyone finds out I used to be a rebel and I go to prison then I’ve lost him anyway, haven’t I?” And they’d worked so hard for this. Both of them. Surviving the army, making it back to the city to create a home for themselves. Finding each other again in the midst of all the bloody chaos. 

“I know.” Ginny wrapped herself closer around Crowley’s neck, her head rubbing his cheek. “We must do something though.”

“ _I know!_ ” Crowley also knew it wasn’t fair to take his anger out on Ginny, but he’d wanted to keep this one good thing with Aziraphale so badly. This one, good, normal thing. He should have known better than to trust the universe for any assistance with that. 

“The first thing we need to do is hide that gold before Aziraphale does get back,” Crowley decided.

Yes. Right. One thing at a time. That’s how Crowley had made it this far. Just one thing at a time. 


	2. Papaver somniferum var. Album

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An arm is broken, and bandaged. There is smooching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and supporting. We're aiming to get a chapter up every two weeks, life allowing. Please enjoy and be aware of some period typical violence and idiocy, some broken bones and the remedy for them. 
> 
> If you can't wait to see Tarek's lovely artwork, jump straight to the end of the chapter.

_Papaver somniferum var. Album (Opium Poppy) (To be made into a syrup with good spirits. Gives relief to pain of the body and the heart. Addictive. Keep away from Madame. Taken from the case book of Anthony J. Crowley, Apothecary)_   


Aziraphale hurried out of the porter’s lodge and straight into the chaos of another blasted market day. Since the second civil war had been officially declared over, the city had embraced its hard-won freedom in desperate and frantic attempts to breathe new life into the economy. That meant there was no need to wait for the next feast day to encourage everyone to spend their money until it had run out. Every peddler of exotic wares and unusual curiosities in a five mile radius had been given free reign to pile into the city’s main square (and, in this case clog up the streets, alleyways and courtyards surrounding it too). 

To Aziraphale's right, on it's holy hill, the distant spires of the Celestial Palace rose valiantly above the chaos. The gold of its domes glinted in the baking summer sun. To his left, the not so distant bulk of Marshgate Prison loomed, the crenellations around its squat towers like broken teeth. No matter where you were in the city, the Marshgate managed to cast its shadow. 

Caught between the two, the tall crooked buildings surrounding the square dripped with bunting, making the bright colours of their gables even more garish. Pictures of the Queen were everywhere, garlands hung on their frames. 

The air of festivity held a tension to it though. A desperate madness that sharpened the air. The variety of goods on show didn't quite hide the lack of fresh, edible produce that had been available lately. Or that the price of bread was rising again. 

Not a single one of Aziraphale’s senses wasn’t assaulted as he maneuvered his way through the stalls. He had to jump backwards to avoid a fire breather who had set up shop between the awnings. 

“In Her name!” he gasped, one hand fluttering up to check his eyebrows. “Don’t they know there’s still rebels in The Fringelands?”

“Stop fussing. Let them enjoy themselves,” Fluffy murmured. 

“All very well for you to say. You don’t have to walk through this madness.” 

Fluffy curled tight around Aziraphale’s neck, her tail tucked in close to her body. Clutching his bag to his chest Aziraphale began to edge his way through the crowd. 

"Did Gabriel seem tense to you?" Aziraphale asked. 

"Distracted," Fluffy murmured. "Do you think it is the Queen he wants us to find?" 

"Hush!" Aziraphale glanced around nervously. 

"He did know Crowley's name though! It was written in his notes!" Fluffy whispered indignantly in Aziraphale's ear. 

"You really must stop reading Gabriel’s paperwork!" He muttered back without any real ire, one eye on stepping over the piles of refuse accumulating on the cobbles. Some of the uncollected night soil was starting to steam. 

"Then he shouldn't leave it on his desk! He shouldn't presume his subordinates are stupid." Fluffy’s tail flicked. “Or the familiars of his subordinates are stupid, anyway. And you weren't much better! Friends! What would Crowley say to that!?" Her voice rose. 

Aziraphale glanced around nervously, as though Crowley's name could summon the man himself. "I was protecting him! The college isn't ready to accept bilingual incantations and they are certainly not ready to… Look, it doesn't matter. When I'm a member of the college and people actually listen to me, I'll sort it out."

"Crowley's not a member of the Occult College of Apothecaries."

"Yes, well, after the war he can afford not to be." Aziraphale dodged a gang of apprentices barreling between the stalls towards him trailing streamers and chaos. "He has quite the reputation."

"A reputation you helped build," Fluffy said gently when the urchins' shrieks had become just another note in the background noise of the market.

"Yes, but in secret. That's the whole point!" 

The point being that he and Crowley had been using their magic together throughout the whole of the second civil war. It had been an accident! It had! Aziraphale had ended up on Crowley's operating table in a field hospital and reached out to his childhood friend without thought for the consequences. He'd just wanted the pain in his leg to stop. How many lives had they saved since then? Enough to outweigh the unpleasant consequences of indulging in a smidge of sorcery, now and again? 

Aziraphale dared to step back into the crowd, keeping his arms close to his body and ensuring no enterprising thief was tempted to try stealing his bag. The day was quite ruined though. Gabriel’s mention of sorcery, and his odd request had left Aziraphale quite unsettled. 

Did the Ethereal College’s need for a searching spell mean that the Queen really was lost? Or were they simply trying to locate her grand nephew before the rebels found him again?

"Just, don't you dare hurt Crowley. I'll never speak to you again if you do,” Fluffy continued.

"That may actually be a blessing!" Aziraphale snapped back. "You know I can't admit to being more than his friend."

Fluffy rubbed her head against Aziraphale’s cheek. "Part of our agreement when you stood before the Familiar Door and manifested me was that I'd speak your mind and heart when you couldn't. You don't want to hurt him either."

"I don't. I won't.  _ I won't! _ " Aziraphale was afraid and that made him tetchy. Gabriel always made him afraid though, not by doing anything other than being the stalwart and unbending representation of an authority that Aziraphale was constantly disobeying. 

It was exhausting. 

They broke through the last line of stalls and into the fair’s centre where the two main city streets intersected. The town crier stood at the base of the monument that marked the market cross, bravely bellowing his news out over the heads of the crowd, and the excited cries of the bored, young blades tormenting the poor soul in the pillory nearby. 

Aziraphale shuddered, and quickly stepped forward to join the crowd around the town crier. Aziraphale's hat may have been battered and his well worn robes more likely to be repaired than replaced, but the presence of a familiar on his shoulders was enough to make the laity cautious enough not to object to him muscling his way to the front. He stopped close enough to hear but far enough away to avoid flying spittle, head turned up to hear the news. Not that he expected the Queen’s advisors to admit the rebels hadn’t been routed as thoroughly as was hoped, or that Lord Beelzebub themself was still at large, still, it didn’t hurt to listen. 

_ “...Discussion of the succession and the Queen's health or whereabouts is most strongly prohibited from public discourse on pain of death, likewise, mention of the lost prince by name or allusion, shall be counted treason. The divining of prophecies is expressly forbidden...” _

"As though that will mean the problems cease to exist," Fluffy whispered. 

“Hush!” Aziraphale snapped. Although he now made it six months since Her Majesty's last public appearance. He had the date on a commemorative mug. 

The woman next to Aziraphale turned, the hood of her cloak tipping back slightly to reveal keen brown eyes watching him. Her eyebrow lifted and she smirked. It looked amused enough, but you never could tell. She could be amused because she’d just earned herself a hefty reward for reporting him to the nearest watchman. 

Aziraphale smiled back at her in a way that he hoped looked more apologetic than terrified. She smiled back serenely. “Don’t look so worried. I’ve more important things to do than informing on people.”

“Not that you’d need to inform on us at all. Very loyal. Just been to see Dr Gabriel Arch actually, he’s on the Queen’s Celestial Council.”

“Of course,” the woman said. Then she looked at Fluffy and winked. 

The infernal feline winked back. 

“You wont be wanting this then?” the woman pulled a feather from the inside of her coat, black and white and glossy like a magpie’s. She leaned forward and tucked it into Aziraphale’s collar. “Wear that and you won't have to  _ speak _ treason.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said automatically, but it really didn’t feel like she’d given him anything to thank her for. Instead he felt exposed. As though the feather was a marker for trouble. 

"Of course sometimes it does need to be spoken!" The young woman pushed back her hood showing thick dark hair and, cupping her mouth, shouted. “Do not be afraid! The Queen loves you! She always has and always will! Even now she is working towards your safety and happiness!”

The Town Crier tried valiantly to compete with her, but it soon became clear he had lost the crowd’s interest. The young men that had surrounded the pillory were wandering over, bringing their missiles and bored arrogance with them.

“What are you doing?!” Aziraphale whispered urgently in the woman’s ear, while also trying to physically distance himself from her. “You aren’t a Messenger!”

“Says who?” The woman turned to him. “The Queen herself chose me!”

She said it with such assurance that Aziraphale momentarily couldn’t remember why he doubted her. He had been a soldier though. Not a happy one, but a good one, and it had given him a number of instincts. Right now the hairs on the back of his neck were at attention. Fluffy hissed. 

Aziraphale grabbed the woman, dragging her just out of range of the first thrown projectile. The pear smashed on the stones by their feet. Pity, he liked pears. The woman cried out in protest at being manhandled, and jerked against Aziraphale’s grip. 

“Don’t be stupid!” Aziraphale snapped, just as the woman turned and a flying chunk of masonry hit her in the head. She swayed, fingers rising to the cut that was already oozing bright red blood. One of the gang responsible laughed. 

Aziraphale kept a hold of the woman, eyes flicking through the crowd. “Watch!” he shouted. “I need a Watchman!”

There were quite a few metal helmets dispersed around the cross. Their commander always made sure there was a presence, and there was a presence, quite a large one. Even for a feast day. The quality of the officers did vary though. This one, walking forward as though he was terrified of arriving, looked as though he’d never worn an air of authority in his life. “Now then,” he held up his hands placatingly. A tomato hit him in the side of his face. 

“The Queen loves you!” The woman insisted, loudly, as she turned on the crowd, teeth bared through the blood running down her face. “She herself knows why when you’re all such ungrateful, ignorant…!”

She dodged the next missile thrown. Aziraphale called out for her to be careful, but the cobbles were uneven and covered with rubbish. As the young woman stepped backwards she slipped. Both Aziraphale and the watchman darted forward as the woman fell back, hand flying out. She hit the cobbles palm first. The snap of her bone breaking silenced the crowd. 

Then it fuelled them. They surged forward. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to them all week. The watchman looked ready to run. Aziraphale seized the whistle hung on the boy’s breast plate and shoved it in his face. “Reinforcements, yes?”

The boy nodded, but said, "Paragraph 3.5.1 off  _ The Watchman's Operational Handbook  _ clearly states that a watchman is only permitted to use his whistle in circumstances where there is grave threat to..."

"Dear boy, keep talking and I will become a very grave threat to  _ you _ ."

The boy nodded. He blew his whistle, the shrill note cutting above the noise of the crowd. How in Her Name was Gabriel going to react when Aziraphale was pulled up before a magistrate for breaking the Queen’s peace?

“Aziraphale!” Fluffy screamed. 

Aziraphale turned. One of the young men from the pillory had drawn his sword. Which was inevitable really. If they were carried, they were going to be used eventually. Aziraphale’s stomach twisted at the sight of it. He turned to the watchman. The boy’s mouth gaped. The whistle dropped from his slack lips. He’d be no good. 

“Drat!” Aziraphale leaned across the watchman's body, pulling the regulation gladius free of the sheath on his hip. Aziraphale would be going up against someone much younger, and quicker than him. Heavier sword too. A rapier that was bullish and gaudy. He had to assume that the young man, currently raising the blade over the fallen woman’s head, could use it. 

The thoughts flittered through Aziraphale’s mind too fast to really be registered. He’d hated being a soldier, but he had been good at it. He stepped forward, economically and without fuss. He moved the gladius up, catching the downward swing of the rapier just below the cross bar. The force of it shook through Azirapahle’s bones, all the way to his legs. He’d planted his feet well though, and they didn’t give an inch. His attacker, who was valiantly trying, and failing to cultivate facial hair on his upper lip, snarled with surprise. He swung again, a wild sweep from the side. Aziraphale blocked this one too, the sound of metal clunking making the knots in his stomach tighter. He held the boy’s gaze, weary but unflinching. Someone that young really shouldn’t have so much anger brewing in his eyes. 

It reminded him of a younger Crowley. 

The confidence of the crowd began to waver. It trembled as those at the edges started to disperse. The high notes of other whistles drowned out their mumblings of discontent. 

“Away with ye!” A deep voice yelled, “Constable Pulsifer, what the de’il is about here?”

The young blade facing Aziraphale reluctantly lowered his sword. The anger and the smirk stayed though. It'd be prudent to keep an eye on him. 

The watch sergeant ambled into the fray a roll of tobacco stuck in the side of his mouth and thumbs hooked in his belt. Aziraphale knew him moderately well. He could quite often be found keeping a closer eye on Madame's than was really warranted. 

The sergeant's eyes swept over Aziraphale. “Duelling over a lass’ honour, is it?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale stepped back. “I think perhaps you have the wrong…”

“So, tell me what  _ is _ happening.” The sergeant leaned forward, yellow teeth bared. 

“She!” the young man jabbed the point of his sword at the young woman who had curled her body protectively around her arm, “was preaching heresy!”

“Heresy, ye ken?!”

“Well, no,” Aziraphale said quickly. “She said the Queen loved us. I do hope that isn’t heresy?”

“I ain't a Messenger,” the sergeant grumbled.

And didn’t it just speak volumes that when it came to heresy no one was really sure what could be said and what couldn’t?

“No!” Azirapahle said. “Of course not. You’re a fine upstanding arm of the law! Far more important things to be doing than dealing with this bit of bother. Poor girl just got a bit over excited with her love for our ruler. Perfectly understandable.”

The sergeant’s face retreated into a frown as he worked this through his nicotine soaked brain. 

“And there’s so many people here,” Aziraphale continued. “Think of all the witnesses you’d have to interview, the reports.” He threw a very pointed glance at the gang of young men, still dangling their swords like they'd forgotten they were there. “The amount of bad news you would have to give to parents.”

It wasn’t quite the voice Aziraphale had used to command his unit, but it was authoritative enough that swords were put away, feet were shuffled. 

"As if there weren't enough to worry about today!" The sergeant grumbled. "War' with last night's excitement, an' all."

Last night's excitement clearly weighed on the sergeant's conscience. Aziraphale refused to ask about it, lest his escape was held up by a litany of public servant grievances. “I think this fine young constable here will back me up that it was just a bit of high spirits and misunderstandings.”

The fine young constable looked at his gladius that was still in Aziraphale's hand. Aziraphale was ashamed to admit it, but he probably held the blade with a rather obvious level of competence. He offered it back hilt first. 

The fine young constable accepted the sword as though it might bite him. 

“All a complete misunderstanding!” The constable babbled. He turned to the crowd waving his free arm. “Move along otherwise you will be arrested under Section 5, paragraph 2b of  _ The Act for Preventing Tumults _ … !”

"Bugg'r orff home!" yelled the sergeant. "Nice lad," he murmured to Aziraphale. "Reads too much." Then he straightened the magpie feather in Aziraphale's collar and winked at him. 

It was horrifying. 

Some of the crowd, including the young men with swords, sloped away. The rest hung around to watch Aziraphale help the young woman to her feet. She groaned, biting her lip and cradling her broken arm.

The constable hurried forward. “Can you get her some help?”

“Oh, yes, I know just the chap,” Aziraphale said, and despite the blood and the swords, and the remaining terror thrumming through his veins, the world was suddenly a very lovely place. 

Crowley became aware of the noise first. It rose above the background buzz of cart drivers swearing at each other on the main road, and the continuous droning of the various city bells that could never quite agree what the time was. 

This noise was a cloud of voices growing steadily louder. It had an execution day, holiday feel about it. Excitement, awe and titillated fear. 

It never paid to get involved with whatever current madness the mob had got stuck in their head. Still, Crowley went to the door, Ginny half curling around his leg, and peered into Appletree Court. 

Madame Tracy, who ran the haberdashery - at least it was a haberdashery if the City Watch asked - stood on her own step, jewellery soaking up the sunlight. "They're coming our way, love." 

Crowley nodded in acknowledgement. The noise was cresting now. A rolling wave of sound amplified by the narrow entrance to the courtyard. 

At least the mob didn't have pitchforks. Small blessings, and all that. Crowley was about to retreat back inside when he heard his name, sharp and urgent, cutting through the general hubbub. 

It wasn't a voice he heard often, and hardly ever directed at him, but he was close enough to Aziraphale to recognise Fluffy's voice, afraid and breathless. She ran ahead of the crowd, bounding over the packed earth, ears back against her head and tail whipped out behind her. Ginny hissed as Fluffy darted between Crowley's legs and into the shop. 

Crowley stepped quickly into the court, striding forward to meet the crowd where Aziraphale, robes splattered with blood, was helping a dark haired young woman stay upright. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighed with relief. "Laceration on her right temple, fairly shallow about an inch. No debris in it that I could see. Shouldn't need stitching. Her arm…" 

The woman had her right arm clutched tight to her body. Her skin was green with the pain of it. Crowley took her gently by the shoulder, supporting her other side as they approached the shop. Crowley really shouldn't have bothered getting changed. His robes were going to be soaked. Head wounds always were bleeders.

All he wanted to do was hug Aziraphale though. He looked shaken down to his roots, pale and trembling. He was grateful when Madame hurried over to join them, giving Aziraphale's arm a squeeze in the process. 

Ginny slithered quickly out of the way and into the ceiling beams to avoid the feet tramping about. Fluffy had clambered up several shelves, and crouched there, her spine arched. 

"Closed fracture on her arm," Aziraphale said as Crowley cleared space on the counter top. Wouldn't do to take the woman to the back room. The crowd had come for a show and they'd only try to squeeze in there with him. 

Plus, he had no idea who she was so it couldn't hurt to have witnesses. A familiar buzz of adrenalin hit Crowley's veins. He didn't miss much about working in army field hospitals, but this, this challenge of putting his skill to whatever was brought to him and succeeding, that was something he’d get out of bed for. 

"Up you go, love." Madame, always calm in a crisis, helped the girl on to the counter top. "What's your name?"

"Anathema." The patient frowned. 

"This is Anathema," Madame said pointedly to Crowley. She had very strong opinions on his bedside manner, ever since he'd sent one of her girls home in tears over a pregnancy. 

It hadn't been Crowley's fault! He hadn't got the daft chit pregnant, just been the idiot who got stuck with telling her. Potions only worked if you took them, for Her sake! 

"Lovely," Crowley muttered dryly as he pulled jars from the shelves. Didn’t need to look at the labels, they were just there to make the customers feel safe. He knew what was in every one of them from the texture and the shape of the glass, the gentle vibrations from the plants the concoctions were made of. "I'm going to take a look at that cut and then set your arm, OK?" 

The patient blinked at him and nodded. 

"Chew on this, dear." Aziraphale, who did have the appropriate bedside manner, had found the willow bark and offered the jar with a sympathetic smile. It was at odds with his pale face and the worried crease between his brows. 

Crowley nudged Aziraphale to the side with his hip so he could pull the patient’s hair back from her temple and start washing away the worst of the blood with an infusion of marigold. She bit her lip and whimpered a bit, but stayed mercifully still. 

“You’re doing so well, love,” Madame said with a death glare at Crowley.

“Would have done better if she’d not got into this state in the first place,” Crowley said, mostly to see Madame’s mouth drop in outrage and hear Ginny’s angry hiss. The crowd at least, were silent. Hanging around in case he did something wrong, the bastards. 

The marigold water was working though, the soft, yellow glow of its magic warmed Crowley’s fingers where they touched the cloth that he’d dipped into the bowl. He could feel it soothing the jagged edges of the skin, the beginnings of the bruising around the patient’s eye. When he'd finished cleaning, Crowley daubed the cut in honey. Aziraphale had found the bandages too, and Crowley spared him a quick smile before he wrapped the cut up. 

When this was over he was going to kiss Aziraphale senseless. Kiss him until every worry line had melted away and he was laughing again.

“Get her laying down,” Crowley said when he was satisfied with the bandage. 

“You could ask her yourself,” Madame snapped. 

“Look at her, she’s going to pass out,” Crowley replied. “This will help.” He ferreted about beneath the counter and pulled out a bottle that had an aura of darkness clinging to it, soporific and heady. She’d still need some leather to bite, but this should help take the edges off the pain. The sharp scent of alcohol and poppy tickled his nose as he poured out a draught and handed it to Madame. “Help her.”

Madame sniffed at the cup. “The good stuff, I see?”

“I know exactly how much is in there. You take even a sip and she’ll suffer for it.”

Madame pouted, but held the patient’s head while she drank. When she’d finished coughing Madame helped her lay all the way down and took a grip on her shoulders. Crowley’s gaze swept over the crowd, loitering beneath a blanket of expectant silence. He spotted a dented iron helmet, rusted slightly around the rivets. “You, string bean!" 

"Constable Pulsifer,” The string bean beneath the helmet squeaked. 

"You want to argue while she’s in pain?" And having a member of the Watch front and centre wouldn't hurt. Especially if things did go a bit wrong. 

Pulsifer hurried forward, joining Madame at the patient’s shoulder. 

“Let me help too,” Aziraphale stood by Crowley’s side, his attention firmly on the patient. He placed one hand on the patient’s arm, just above the place where the skin bulged unnaturally. His other hand rested lightly on the base of Crowley's spine, well below the counter and out of the view of their audience. “Hold on, dear.” 

The touch tickled for a moment, then prickled like a thousand dancing pins and needles. Crowley heard Aziraphale's voice again, almost caught the shape and resonance of the words as they were born and died in the same breath. He knew this spell. He knew he did. It had been uttered in his ear, softly, so only he could hear it. One of their spells that they'd written together while Aziraphale's leg was bandaged up and Crowley had sat on the edge of his bed showing him the latest medical textbook, teaching him the words for body parts and procedures. 

Aziraphale’s touch prickled, then came the rush of power through Crowley’s blood and bone. His hair follicles tingled as the ghost of the spell soaked into him. The world turned grey for a moment. He saw through the patient’s skin and meat to the shape of her bone. The blackness between the two jagged ends of the break. Crowley blinked, the magic faded leaving him bereft of it’s warmth and certainty. 

Aziraphale had moved to the other side of the counter. He now had his hands on the patient’s hips, pressing down. Crowley took hold of her arm. He knew exactly where to pull, where to twist. The edges of bone grated back together. She cried out around the leather gripped in her teeth, her body bucking against the hands restraining her. 

It was what the crowd had come here for. Crowley hoped they would be disappointed. No blood letting, no amputations, just business. After that he got some splints and bandaged the arm, got the patient sitting up and put her arm in a sling. “Clean the honey off the head wound after an hour,” he told Madame who had been suspiciously eager to take charge of the patient. 

Or perhaps not so suspicious. The patient was attractive, but the state of her shoes indicated a lack of funds. Madame wasn't the sort to trick girls into service, but she did have a keen eye for a business opportunity. 

“Clean the wound out and bandage it up again. Keep an eye on the splint too. Plaster would be better for it, but I wasn’t expecting to need it today so there’s none mixed.” Crowley wiped his hands on a cloth as he spoke. 

Constable String Bean was talking to Aziraphale. Fluffy had crept back down from the shelves and was now in his arms, allowing herself to be petted while Aziraphale answered the constable's earnest questions. 

When Madame had tucked the supplies Crowley had given her into the pockets of her voluminous, gaudy skirts and helped the patient down from the counter top, Crowley turned to the members of the crowd who hadn’t yet trickled away. “Show’s over. Either bugger off or buy something!”

With only minor grumbling they sloped off back to their day jobs, or whatever illegal mischief kept them employed. 

Constable String Bean approached the patient, notebook at the ready. Madame gave him a glare that would wilt ivy and he backed off, opening the shop door for them and then following them out into the court. 

The shop was finally empty. 

Aziraphale sighed, his spine collapsing slowly back against the counter. He was rumpled and bloody, his eyes haggard. Just like old times. Crowley grinned. “Looks like you’ve had quite the day.”

Aziraphale glanced up, his smile weak but growing stronger as his gaze travelled over Crowley. “It’s better now.”

Crowley’s heart fluttered a bit. Not that he’d ever admit it. He stepped forward, sliding his fingers along Aziraphale's jaw, taking a moment just to look at him. It was still unbelievable that he could look, open and honest, and without hiding his intentions. 

Aziraphale's lips had parted, his eyes so full of love and wonder Crowley couldn’t wait any more. He closed the distance, pressing their mouths together. 

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, and pressed back, humming with content. 

The cares of the day lifted. 

Fluffy huffed with outrage as Aziraphale twisted to deposit her on the counter top, freeing one of his hands to grip Crowley's bicep, the other to curl round Crowley's neck and tease the long hair that had come free from his plait. 

Crowley rested his palm on Aziraphale's waist, guiding them closer together. The kiss deepened and Crowley's heart danced with the pleasure of it. 

They could do this. Together. 

A weight hit Crowley's shoulder as Ginny used him as a bridge between the drying racks above and the counter top. 

"Oi!" Crowley said. 

"Don't mind me," Ginny said. "I take it you will both be a while?"

Aziraphale's ears went pink. 

"Yes," Crowley said. 

Ginny's tongue flickered, she turned to Fluffy who was ostentatiously cleaning her whiskers. "Want to go and hunt some rats?" 

Fluffy sniffed. "Can't take care of the problem yourself?" 

Ginny rolled her eyes, "Or you can stay here while they smooch."

"Rats, then." 

The two familiars got down from the counter. 

"Alone at last." Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's waist, just because he could. 

"You were very competent today," Aziraphale said, cheeks flushed and practically batting his lashes. 

"You like it when I'm competent?" Crowley lifted an eyebrow. 

Aziraphale avoided his gaze. "You  _ know  _ I do."

"C'mon here then. I'll show you what else I'm  _ competent  _ at."

" _ Please!"  _

Crowley crowded Aziraphale back against the counter top and gave a full demonstration of his kissing skills. It did take quite a while. He was becoming very talented. 


	3. Aqua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale starts work on Gabriel's spell. Crowley comes to him with a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone reading and commenting. More lovely art by Tarek about a third of the way down!
> 
> CW for (more) blood and leeches in this chapter.

**_Aqua (Water - Variations on the summoning thereof, specifically for washing. Further notes: Add words to make it stop!- Taken from the Spell Log of A.Z. Fell, Spellwright.)_ **

Aziraphale kept his eyes closed. If his eyes were closed then he could stay in the deliciously warm bubble of Crowley's arms just a tad longer. He could keep his fingers in that silky hair, keep his lips moving, slow and sweet, and sure. 

When had they gotten so good at this?

There was still a delicacy to it though. Every touch a question,  _ is this too far? Is this too fast?  _ There were places their hands didn't dare go just yet. Words between them that still remained unsaid, even after the first breathless  _ I love yous.  _

The words filled Aziraphale's throat. He thought about letting his hands slide incrementally lower. Of asking,  _ is this alright? And this?  _

Nerves danced beneath his skin, igniting wherever Crowley touched. He was a book, laid open for reading under those clever hands. 

Aziraphale had always been drawn to the freedom of giving up control, of letting his thoughts and worries just bleed away. Drawn to it, and terrified of how vast and open the world would be afterwards. Things were tumbling back towards chaos now though, and so was he. There was too much at risk again. 

And what if Crowley had a customer? And there was something itching on Aziraphale's ear, something tightening his skin as it dried. 

"Hmm." He shifted a bit to scratch. "Ugh!" 

"What?" Crowley breathed. "What'd I do?" 

"We should probably wash." Aziraphale held up his hand, the flakes of dry blood still clinging to his fingers. 

"Huh." Crowley wiped at his own cheek. "Barely any mess at all. You remember the defeat at…" 

"I'd rather not," Aziraphale cut in quickly. 

Crowley could talk about it with some degree of detachment. Aziraphale suspected he had his night terrors, but in the light of day he could deal with the war as just facts. He'd been helping put lives back together after all. Aziraphale had been taking them apart. He'd been good at it, that was the terrifying thing. And there had been a time when he'd wanted to be good at it because he believed his side was just. 

He shuddered. Crowley pulled him into his shoulder. "Hey, you promised you'd stay with me."

"Still here." Aziraphale dug his fingers into Crowley's back. "It's OK. I can talk about it. I want to. It's just…" 

"I look like a butcher."

"A bit." Aziraphale drew back and ran his fingers down Crowley's cheek. "Head wounds really are bleeders."

"They are."

"It's not just the blood. In the square she started preaching about how the Queen still loved us. Caused quite the ruckus. I...defended her. I stopped a boy with a sword. Frightening how easy it was."

"She started preaching?" A frown settled on Crowley's face. "How does she know what the Queen does or doesn’t do?" 

Aziraphale panicked, thoughts immediately jumping back to Gabriel and his odd request for a spell to locate a missing person. "How do any of us?" 

Crowley's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "Careful, angel. That sounds like heresy."

Fluffy landed on the counter top, jaw clamped around a large rat. She dropped it. Eyes glinting with blue light and mischief said, “Aziraphale, you need to eat something. Other than Crowley’s face, that is.”

Aziraphale gasped in shock. “Fluffy!”

“I’m just looking out for you.” Her tail twitched primly. 

“I should go,” Aziraphale murmured. “Get something to eat. Get cleaned up.”

“Maybe actually try running a business?” Crowley stepped back, one side of his mouth curving upwards. There was a tell tale frown on his forehead though. 

Aziraphale made himself laugh. “Yes, quite.”

Fluffy collected her rat and padded to the door. 

“Well,” Aziraphale tugged his robes back down where they had ridden up slightly and edged away from the counter. “I’ll see you later?”

Crowley nodded, eagerness momentarily breaking through his serious expression. 

“Lovely.”

Neither of them moved. 

“Aziraphale!” Fluffy singsonged around the rat in her mouth. 

“Yes.” Aziraphale went to step forward, hesitated. Stepped back. 

Crowley raised his eyebrows, mouth smiling. Aziraphale went up on tip toes and kissed his cheek. 

Odd how nervous he felt about that after what they’d just done. It was the casual touches, the ones that he supposed other couples took for granted, that seemed the most important. The most forbidden. 

“I’ll see you later,” Aziraphale promised and hurried away. 

Aziraphale didn't relax properly until the bookshop door was safely closed behind him. This was his sanctuary. He'd remade himself in these walls. Laid down his sword and unbuckled his armour like it was an old, dead chrysalis that had to be shed. The blood on him itched. He imagined it seeping into him, spreading the truth of the past beneath his skin like infection. Aziraphale scratched harder. He'd been so naïve. So foolish. But he still believed in the Queen’s love and goodness, because if he didn't then what had it all been for? Who was he without the certainty of her grace? 

_ What if she was missing?  _

Fluffy arched against his legs, purring softly. 

Aziraphale went to the back room of the bookshop where there was a wash basin of dented metal on a wooden stand. It was useful for getting ink off his fingers without the need to go upstairs. Aziraphale pulled his fraying edges back together. He needed water. He took a deep breath and let his mind drift into a state where he was calm, only just paying attention. His mind tingled, the feeling slipping into the pads of his fingers as the energy currents around him shifted. 

Not just any water was needed. Clean water, fresh and not too cool. Aziraphale searched through his mind for the words. It was why he loved languages. Whenever there wasn't a word in his native tongue he could sometimes stumble across one that had the exact meaning, weight and cadence that he needed somewhere else. 

It was sad, really, that Gabriel didn't understand the beauty of that. He never understood that what Aziraphale wrote down was just an idea, a suggestion. The exact spell was coloured by the caster, their intent and focus, where they were, who was watching and whatever other energies tinted the air. 

When he'd helped Crowley earlier there had been a whole room of care and concern creating energy to draw from. There'd been ghoulish fascination too, and not drawing on that had been just as tricky. 

Aziraphale was alone now though. Safe and comfortable at home. Just Fluffy watching quietly, lending her help. 

So, water. Water in the basin. 

Aziraphale drew the words together in his mind. He tested the rhythm of them. How they would take shape on the air. There was the faint roar of power in his ears. The whisper of it against his hair and skin. 

Aziraphale spoke his chosen words. The world glowed brighter for a moment. Was there something at the edge of his vision? A blurring of light that for a moment looked like the edges of fabric being ripped. The spell started to get away from him. Slippery, like it had been at his college exam. Here though, without other hostile eyes on him, Aziraphale could refocus. Magic thrummed through him, shaking his body as it leapt from his mind and alive into the world. 

Reality snapped into shape a new shape around him. 

The magic faded, and Aziraphale had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. The rush of it always left a gap that needed refilling afterwards. And it had not been so long since he'd helped Crowley. 

Water bubbled into the silence, filling up the basin gradually. Aziraphale bit his lip, relaxing only when it stopped without overflowing.

"There," he said. "I told Gabriel the spell worked."

He snatched up a ball of soap, one of Crowley's experiments from when he was trying to tempt more casual shoppers into the apothecary, and began to scrub the blood from his hands. 

He couldn't quite get off all the flecks of it clinging to the underside of his nails. Aziraphale picked at them absently when he was sitting back at his desk. He'd set it up facing the shop's front window for the convenience of the light and access to his more useful books. It also gave him a view straight across the courtyard to the Apothecary shop. 

There was movement inside. A familiar lean shadow sauntering back and forth. Aziraphale pressed the pads of his fingers to his lips. 

"I'm not happy about bailing you out." Fluffy jumped onto Aziraphale's lap, circling twice before she settled. 

"We're protecting him."

"Are we?" Fluffy allowed Aziraphale to scratch her ears, but her voice remained spiky. "Or are you trying to avoid difficult conversations that lead to confrontations?" 

Aziraphale's fingers stilled. She was right, of course. "Gabriel is very political. He's on the Celestial Council with General Michael and Inquisitor Sandalphon. The less Crowley knows…" 

"The more unprepared he will be when the Queen's guard breaks his door down."

"Pfft. It won't come to that if we do what Gabriel asks." It wouldn't. Gabriel had only mentioned Crowley to scare Aziraphale. Make him behave. 

If they were serious about stopping the  _ fraternising  _ then Aziraphale and Crowley would be in the Marshgate already. 

That realisation wasn't as comforting as Aziraphale had hoped. 

"So if we get a spell that works we are going to give it to Gabriel then?" Fluffy asked. 

Aziraphale's stomach dipped alarmingly. If the Queen had vanished then finding her would surely prevent further fighting? So would finding her great nephew if he was Gabriel's intended target instead. Drat, how was he supposed to write a spell when he didn’t actually know who he was looking for? They both had royal blood and the power to protect themselves, but he imagined the signature of that power would be very different.

"We could try a spell for each?" Fluffy mused.

"Then Gabriel will know that we know." The idea was horrifying.

Fluffy tutted. "But if we don't say anything, he won't acknowledge it either. And we may get paid twice."

Getting paid twice would be helpful. The current financial climate being what it was meant people were starting to realise they had things other than magic to spend their money on.

"They'll kill the Prince if they find him." Fluffy murmured. "You know they will. He's a child."

"Should we wait until he grows up, then?” Aziraphale said waspishly. “He's a Royal." With power the rest of them could only imagine. "Besides, it's academic if we can't get a spell together in the first place."

Aziraphale put his spectacles on his nose and shifted forward. His portrait of the Queen, hung on a rare patch of bare wall to his right, gazed down on him, disconcertingly free of judgement. Fluffy slunk on to the book strewn desk, sitting neatly with her tail coiled around her paws so she could peer down and read too. She shivered for a moment, head turning up as though searching for something hidden in the shadows of the ceiling. 

"Are you alright?" Aziraphale asked

Her gaze snapped back to him. "Of course, let's get on shall we?" Her eye light shone cerulean blue with magic. 

Aziraphale started with his own most recent note book. Finding lost things, after all, was a staple of his business. He was quite often employed by heirs who wanted to know where their recently deceased granny had hidden the family silver. 

Although at least then the search area was narrowed down to the deceased's property. This spell would have to look everywhere. How long would the location light glow for? How big could he make it? 

Aziraphale skimmed through the pages of his court hand inscribed spells, eyes occasionally flicking up to the shop opposite. He found no peace there. 

That had been a thing. 

Crowley had, more or less, a lifetime of learning Aziraphale, starting with two boys perched on the old city wall above the Eastgate slums sharing an impromptu picnic. 

Despite what his tutors in the  _ Occult College of Apothecaries _ had always said about him, Crowley was a quick study. When he had the motivation. 

He knew Aziraphale, and that had been _ a thing.  _

Crowley put all his anxiety and frustration into scrubbing blood spots off the counter. He was all for advertising, but some things were better left to a customer's imagination. 

"I'd have done the same for you!" Ginny called out. She was fishing for leeches in the tank in the corner. 

“He can talk to me though, about anything. It’s not like I have the moral high ground to judge him, is it?” Crowley shot back. 

“But he doesn’t know that, does he?” Ginny had one of the wriggling black things in her tail. She tossed it high and caught it with a snap of her jaws. 

“Fair point.” Crowley paused with his scrubbing. He and Aziraphale had grown up together. They'd been separated, and found each other again twice. There had been times in between though that Crowley would rather stayed hidden. 

Not that he'd lie about his rebel past. Well, he would. And cheat, and steal, and had done all those things for what at the time, appeared to be very good reasons, but he would not lie to Aziraphale. 

He would just not bring certain things up. 

And yes, that made him a hypocrite, but he was keeping Aziraphale safe. Really, that's all he'd ever wanted to do. 

“What are we going to do about it?” Ginny munched another leech. 

“Sulk? Pine? Finish scrubbing the blood out of the woodwork?” Crowley snapped. "Go hunting for some more leeches?" 

The plants shivered in their pots. Where they could, their leaves pulled in close in an effort to avoid being the focus of Crowley's irritation. 

Ginny had no such fear of him. She hugged the base of a plant pot, head extended so she could look Crowley in the eye. “Idiot.”

“Humph.” Crowley leant forward, head on his crossed arms. 

How was this so hard? This was their happy ever after wasn't it? Free of responsibility to the Queen and country. They'd moved on from the past so why could the past not just respect that and stay in… Well, the past?

Crowley needed to speak to Aziraphale. That was all. Coax the stubborn man into remembering they were stronger together. 

"I can hear you thinking," Ginny said, tongue flicking out as though it could taste his thoughts. 

She probably could. She was so familiar with him because she was part of his soul, his connection to the world’s magic, summoned through the Familiar Door when he'd passed his first apprentice exams. 

“So?” Crowley sulked. 

“I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

Crowley reached up, bopping her blunt nose with the pad of his index finger. She hissed with annoyance, but then slithered over to rest her head against his temple. 

“Going to do something nice for him.” Crowley picked Ginny up so he could go to the window and look at the bookshop. “Probably in there worrying about something. Worrying so hard that he’s forgotten to eat”

“Can’t be having with that, I’m sure.” Ginny sounded fond and exasperated. It was a tone that suggested while she still thought Crowley was an idiot, he was very much her idiot. 

Aziraphale had not realised he'd fallen asleep until the dinging of the shop bell cut through a rather lovely dream. 

There'd been crepes. And Crowley. 

"Closed!" Aziraphale sat up. Fluffy tumbled off his chest with a hiss, her nails catching on his robes. 

Aziraphale blinked. The sun had sunk behind the roofline. His neck ached and as he licked his lips he became aware of the fur on his tongue. Actual fur. 

"Urgh!" He began patting down his pockets for a handkerchief. 

“Have you eaten?” Crowley stood in the doorway, half hidden in shadow.

“Apparently nothing more than cat hair!”

Crowley cackled. “Benefit of having a snake familiar.”

“Not the only benefit, surely!” Ginny said with mock offence. She was coiled around Crowley’s neck, and as she lifted her head for a scratch Aziraphale caught a glimpse of her silhouette against the fading light. 

“What time is it?”

“Curfew bell rang not so long ago.” Crowley perched on the edge of Aziraphale's desk. “What’s kept you so busy?”

Aziraphale closed the book he’d been making notes in. “Nothing very interesting. Just went down a bit of a rabbit hole. That was all.”

Crowley nodded and Aziraphale desperately wished he had a better view of his face. There was a guardedness to the way he lounged on the desk, a tension to his limbs. It left quickly as he pushed himself back to his feet. “Come on then. I have a surprise for you!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale protested. “You know I hate surprises.”

"He doesn't," whispered Fluffy, the traitorous feline. 

“Ah, and it was edible as well, but fair enough. If you hate surprises so much I’ll go and pack it all away.” Crowley shrugged.

Well that was hardly fair to Crowley, was it? Aziraphale sighed. "Alright. You have my attention."

Crowley held out his hand and pulled Aziraphale out of his chair. "Come on then. Just one thing." He held out the blindfold. 

"Oh, now really!" Although Aziraphale couldn’t deny his stomach fluttered at Crowley’s closeness and at the deliciousness of having been thought worth the effort of this subterfuge. 

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. 

"Fine!" Aziraphale snatched the blindfold and put it over his own face. Crowley stepped behind him to do it up. 

"Be worth it, angel. Promise."


	4. Hordeum vulgare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some unexpected visitors cause problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very excited - This chapter has some of the first art Tarek did for this! Show it some love!
> 
> The songs sung are  
> A less rude adaptaion of a common soldiers' one from World War I  
> One from the TV series M*A*S*H  
> Daniel Hagman's version of a song from the Napoleonic Wars used in the TV series Sharpe.

**_Hordeum vulgare (Barley - Brew with water, and hops to preserve. Not bad tasting with bilberries. Made an angel sing._ _Taken from the case book of Anthony J. Crowley, Apothecary)_ **

Aziraphale grumbled as he was guided over the uneven surface of the courtyard and into the earthy scent of the apothecary shop. 

Crowley removed his blindfold. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. The apothecary shop glowed with colour. Old jars of coloured glass were scattered about, each with a candle burning inside. The majority of them were set around a rug that had been spread out in the centre of the shop floor with an absolute feast set out on it. Aziraphale stepped forwards. There was bread, cheese, a cold pie and lots of bottles. The bottles were unlabeled and looked distinctly like the alcohol Crowley brewed, in flagrant disregard of city rules, in the shed at the bottom of his garden. Aziraphale would get tipsy just by inhaling the fumes. 

“Oh Crowley!” Aziraphale’s happiness bloomed in his chest. “This looks lovely.”

“Gotta make sure you eat more than cat hair.” Crowley laughed. 

Aziraphale tried to turn his beam into disapproval, but was so happy he only managed to scale it back from ecstatic to joyful. “I am famished, where shall we start?”

Crowley snagged a bottle from the blanket. “With extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

Yes, all things considered, Aziraphale thought that _was_ rather a good place to start. 

It was only when they were opening the second bottle of Crowely’s very potent homebrew that Aziraphale suspected he’d been set up. It began with a very nonchalant, “So….” as Crowley wrestled with the bottle’s cork.

“So?” Aziraphale tensed. 

Fluffy would be no help. She was asleep by the counter, using Ginny’s coils as a makeshift basket. 

“Are you alright?” Crowley looked up then wahooed with delight as the cork came free.

“Of course. Tickety-boo. Are _you_ alright?” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. 

“Yeah, sure.” Crowley blew air out through his teeth. “Nah, not entirely. See, there’s someone I care about very much, and he got himself in a spot of bother today and I think he was still really upset, but didn’t talk to me about it.” Crowley leaned forward, topping up Aziraphale’s glass. “And now I’m worried about him, and worried about me in case I’ve done something that means he doesn’t want to to talk to me....”

“You are quite neurotic, it seems.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were warm, both from the alcohol and the, _someone I care about very much._ It took some getting used to, this being cared for. 

“ _I’m_ neurotic?” Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. 

“Very well.” Aziraphale exhaled slowly. “There were new proclamations issued today. It is now legally treason to discuss the Queen’s current state or whereabouts. Mentioning the Prince by name will also get you disem..dis, your head nailed to the River Gate.”

"And your torso nailed to the Palace Gate, and…" 

"Really, my dear, must you?" 

Crowley frowned as he topped up his own glass. “The Celestial Council is getting nervous again.”

“Yes, my dear. I’m just...well, rather worried that the rebels are rallying again and we’re heading for another civil war.” Aziraphale picked at his robes. It sounded silly saying it out loud, but the fear was an insidious creeping little thing that wouldn’t be banished. It didn’t help that Crowley took far too long to respond. 

“Nah. They’ve been beaten twice,” he muttered eventually. 

“Third time’s the charm.”

Crowley glanced up, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “It won't come to that. And I mean, if it does, you still have all the gear. Never throw anything away do you?” His smile looked forced, doing nothing to soften the lines around his eyes and creasing his forehead. "Except your sword. Remember you gave that away as soon as you could."

“Unlike you who chucked the whole lot in the river." Aziraphale sipped his drink primly. He barely coughed at all. His resilience was building. 

“First chance I got,” Crowley said proudly. “If things do fire up again I may need to borrow some of your spare socks.”

“Oh lord! The socks. Horrible scratchy things.” Aziraphale shuddered. Not to mention the shirts, and the deplorable food. When those in charge had actually bothered to arrange food. 

“I still know all the moves though.” Crowley, reclined on the floor and propped up by one elbow, pulled off a salute that managed to be both perfect and insolent at the same time.

Aziraphale laughed. 

“And all the words.” Crowley said slyly.

“Words? Oh no! You mean the songs, don’t you?” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

Crowley cleared his throat. 

_“Oh the surgeons in the Army they say we're mighty bright,_

_we work on soldiers through the day and ladies through the night.”_

“You’ve never worked on a lady in your life!” Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley’s answering grin glowed like magic. 

“I did! Just this afternoon. She was very satisfied. Best in the business me. Could get an arm off in under a minute. Four minutes tops including time to stop the bleeding.”

“Hopefully you’re not that speedy with everything!” The words rattled out of Aziraphale’s mouth and immediately made his ears burn. 

Crowley snorted. “Only when it’s required, you know, by circumstances.” The word hissed out of his mouth, drunk and careless. Aziraphale tried not to find that charming. 

Aziraphale looked away, then risked a peek back at Crowley who was still watching him steadily. The warmth in his ears spread to his cheeks. “Alright, I’ve got one.” Aziraphale looked away and again and sat up straighter. 

_“Just think of the boys on the line,_

_No beer, no women, no wine;_

_They sit in their trenches_

_And think of their wenches,_

_So cheer up, my boys, fuck 'em all!”_

Crowley cackled and joined in with the chorus which mostly involved shouting expletives a lot while trying not to laugh. Crowley swung his bottle in time to the music. 

“I know a much ruder version of that!” Crowley said, eyes bright. 

So did Aziraphale. He dove forward slapping his palm over Crowley’s mouth. “Don’t you dare!” 

Given that Crowley had been reclined on his elbow, this left Aziraphale half laying across his chest. Aziraphale’s hand, the one that Crowley’s lips currently wasn’t pressed against, gripped his shoulder. 

They looked at each other, Crowley’s breath warm against Aziraphale’s palm and high spots of colour on his cheeks. 

“Sorry.” Aziraphale moved both hands to the floor and attempted to get up. Crowley’s arms snaked around his waist, holding him in place. 

_“I thought I heard the Colonel crying,_ ” Crowley crooned quietly. 

_“March brave boys there's no denying_

_Cannons roaring - drums abeating_

_March brave boys there's no retreating_

_Love Farewell_

_Will you go or will you tarry_

_Will you wait or will you marry_

_Would this moment last forever_

_Kiss me now and leave me never_

_Love Farewell.”_

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. Tiny, winged things were fluttering quite alarmingly behind his ribs, a heady mix of sorrow and love, and arousal bloomed in his veins. He ran his thumb over Crowley’s cheek, adoring the way Crowley’s breath hitched and his pupils dilated.

Aziraphale brushed his lips over Crowley’s, softly, softly. He wanted to sink into the moment, make it something treasured that could be cradled and reviewed in a future that he was sure would be very unpleasant. 

Crowley’s grip on him tightened. They toppled gently back onto the rug, a brief scuffling followed to find a pillow for Crowley’s head. It gave Aziraphale the opportunity to wriggle more fully on top, stomachs pressing together, legs shifting to make room for each other. To get closer. The alarming fluttering became a buzz in Aziraphale’s blood. The whole world had shrunk to Crowley. His careful mouth, his gorgeous hair, the heat and the scent of him. 

And Crowley’s hands. They were cradling Aziraphale’s face, then one skimmed down his back. Crowley’s fingers dug into Aziraphale’s arse, pulling their hips tighter together. Aziraphale gasped into their kiss.

“‘Msorry, too fast?” Crowley murmured.

Just kissing,” Aziraphale whispered. “I _like_ kissing.” He did. He kissed Crowley harder, pushing him back into the rug. Gosh, Azirapahle did like kissing. Loved it. Kissing and touching and being with the man he loved so very much. 

The shop door rattled with the force of a desperate knock. 

“Closed!” Aziraphale shouted. “Quite definitely!”

Crowley groaned, hands running through his hair. “Could be Madame.”

Madame had got into the habit of slipping them a meal now and then after realising how useful it was to have two veterans on call when one of the late night customers forgot his manners. 

Aziraphale swore quietly, but climbed to his knees with as much good grace as he could muster. 

“Hey, we’ll deal with it quick, yeah?” Crowley swooped in for a last, frantic kiss, before getting to his feet. He opened the door cautiously, standing side on and keeping most of himself hidden behind the frame. 

Aziraphale couldn’t see out into the street, but he did see Crowley sag and hear his frustrated, "Oh, come on!"

"We've money!" Gasped a high, desperate voice. It was young and very afraid. 

Crowley rolled his whole head, then shot a desperate apology over his shoulder at Aziraphale. "Bloody come in then!" He stood back, letting the let night intruders scramble over the threshold. 

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet. "Goodness!" 

Two figures stumbled into the candlelight, their arms slung around each other and listing dangerously. The cause of their ungainly crab walk was the crossbow bolt sticking out of the boy's thigh. 

And he was a boy. Pale and beardless, limbs gangly and untested. 

"Help me!" His companion's voice was frantic. Their eyes were big and dark in the flickering light. 

Far more terrifying was the ink black dog that slunk in after them. It was about as tall as Aziraphale's hip, it's head, and especially its teeth, disproportionately large. The dog's eyes flickered blue. 

Fluffy woke up hissing. She clambered up Aziraphale perching on his shoulder, front paws resting on his head. 

"Lay him down on his side!" Crowley was already washing his hands with alcohol. "Bolt needs pushing through."

He and Ginny appeared completely unphased by the dog. 

"Yes!" Aziraphale turned away from the injured boy now writhing on the picnic rug and scurried to get supplies. 

"Aziraphale!" Fluffy was now weaving carefully between the bottles on the shelf by Aziraphale's head. "Think!" 

Crowley had taken charge of the boy and was giving curt instructions to his companion. The dog lay down in the corner, ears pricked. 

"Angel!" Crowley called. 

Aziraphale snatched the poppy tincture from under the counter. As he returned to the picnic rug he took Fluffy's advice and thought. The two children, they must be well into their teens, but to a man past thirty they were children, wore leather breastplates, fine chainmail covering their arms. He counted at least five knives, a bow and arrow and three swords between them. The boy's companion had her hair braided back from her face. There were Magpie feathers woven into it. 

Aziraphale dropped to his knees opposite Crowley. Crowley glanced quickly up, a frown pulling his brows tight together and an angry curl to his lip. He'd been thinking too and hadn’t liked the results. 

"Dose him up," Crowley said gravely. "Then help hold him down. This will sting like a bitch."

"Crowley!" 

"If they're old enough to be here tonight, like this, then they're old enough to deal with swearing." Crowley gave the girl a look that suggested she would be subjected to more swearing later. 

Her cheeks darkened but she met the challenge of his stare with resolve. Aziraphale was impressed. 

"Now hold him down!" Crowley snapped and started to cut away the whimpering boy's breeches. 

It was long, difficult, careful work. It was also, may Aziraphale be forgiven, boring. He loved watching Crowley work, loved how clever his hands and his mind were, but when there was blood everywhere and the owner of said blood was gasping for their nanny, and all you could do was tense your muscles against their pain and push your weight against them and make them suffer it, the mind would rebel with the lack of things to focus on. 

Aziraphale made soothing noises while the boy jerked under his hands, then went still as the pain finished the job of the poppy and knocked him out. Ginny had slithered up to the stuffed alligator by the window, her tail holding out a candle so Crowley had the light he needed to stitch the back of the boy's leg up. 

Aziraphale focused on the flicker of the metal needle as it darted back and forth. The soft glow of the herbs as Crowley pounded them into a paste to spread on the wound before bandaging it up. He’d drifted into lightheadedness, mind and legs numb where he’d been kneeling still for so long. Thoughts were ruminating just below the surface though. The proclamations, and the dog, silent but with a familiar's eyes. As soon as he’d got some energy back and sobered up a tad Azirapahle just knew there would be a full blown panic waiting for him. 

The glint of a gold chain hanging from the boy’s pocket caught Aziraphale’s eye. He stared at it for a long while. The girl’s attention was shared between Crowley’s hands and her friend’s face. Crowley’s focus was all on his stitching. His cheeks were sucked in where he was biting the insides to keep his head clear. It wasn’t the first time Crowley had performed surgery drunk. There had been days, Aziraphale remembered, when being drunk was the only way he could manage it at all. 

Aziraphale shifted his weight slightly, gave a little grunt as the blood rushed back down his legs, then snagged the gold chain, transferring both it and the pendant attached from the boy’s pocket and into his. 

Crowley sat back on his heels, smearing the blood on his palms absently over his face as he groaned. "You said you had money?" 

The girl nodded. Tears had streaked through the dirt on her face. Charcoal, Aziraphale noted. The boy wore it too, and a tight wool cap pulled well down over his hair, hiding its colour. 

"So," Crowley said, "what do we all think the going rate is for be asked to aide and abet treason?" 

The dog growled. Crowley glared, but it only grumbled back into silence when the girl shushed it. 

Oh, drat. Full blown panic happening now then. Aziraphale took a deep breath and accepted the crossbow bolt, still slick with blood, that Crowley handed to him. It didn’t reveal anything Aziraphale hadn’t already guessed. It was finely crafted to be as beautiful and deadly as possible. It was fletched with pure white feathers. It belonged to a member of the Queen's Inquisitorial Guard. 

"We weren't followed here!" The girl protested. 

"Given that my door hasn't been broken down yet, I believe you,” Crowley growled. “Angel, can you take our guest upstairs? Put him in my bed until he wakes up. Then I think we need to have a conversation with this young lady, starting with why, out of all the apothecaries in the city, the _hell_ she thought it safe to come here."

She looked at Crowley, her head tilted to one side and said, “Tadfield."

Crowley had always been good at hiding his feelings behind a skein of nonchalance and bravado. There was a flicker of panic in his gold eyes though, and they darted once to Aziraphale before it was completely mastered. “Tadfield?” he said quietly. 

It was the girl’s turn to look worried. She nibbled her bottom lip and said. “I grew up there. I was there after the rebels raised the town to the ground. So were you. You helped with the aftermath.”

“I did,” Crowley said. “Angel, take the boy upstairs.”

“No.” Aziraphale folded his arms. “I don’t think I will.”


	5. Amoletum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mystery is solved and another one is discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More amazing art work form Tarek. 
> 
> And a shout out to [hanap](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap) for the beta.

**_Amoletum (amulet. An object infused with a spell to protect the wearer from evil. Sometimes the protection can be as terrifying as the perceived threat. Beware of the dog. Taken from the Spell Log of A.Z. Fell, Spellwright.)_ **

Crowley stared down at his blood stained fingers, perspiration cold on his back and his chest tight. 

"So tell me exactly how you know this young lady." Aziraphale's voice was soft, but it had a definite edge to it. 

"I don't," Crowley said firmly. He risked looking up at Aziraphale's sceptical face. Crowley sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Ginny slithered down from the shelf to be closer to him. Crowley appreciated it, but there was also a clear message in her blue lit eyes. "She knows me," Crowley admitted. 

The stab of fear he'd felt was almost worth it when Aziraphale's features relaxed, his shoulders lowering. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Crowley rubbed his palms on his thighs. "Do you want to tell it?" He asked the girl. "Or shall I?" 

Her eyes flicked nervously between them, but the stubborn line of her lip remained. "Is he going to be alright?" Her hand rested on the crown of the sleeping boy's head. 

"Yeah, probably," Crowley said. 

She lifted her eyebrows. "Could you be any less sure?" 

"He's young, the wound was clean and no major arteries hit. If we can avoid infection he'll be  _ tickety-boo."  _ Crowley sneered. "Shall we get on?" 

"My dear?" Aziraphale asked the girl. 

She looked the sort who would object violently to being anyone's 'dear'. The tension in the room was about thick enough to be sliced with a scalpel. The dog stirred. It padded slowly across the floor and settled against her, giant head in her lap. 

She swallowed and said, "Alright. The False King Lucifer hid his son in Tadfield during the first war. He was taken in by Lord Dowling. After the Fake King's death his followers came back to collect their prince. The boy was terrified, but went out to meet them to protect the town. After he was taken away they…" 

"I know what happened next," Aziraphale whispered. Everyone did. And the look he gave Crowley was heartbreaking. 

There was no horror in it, but no judgement. Just sympathy that Crowley had been there to witness the atrocity at all. 

"The war was done," the girl said. "They'd lost, but they didn't want anyone alive to know what the pretender's son looked like, or where he'd been. Where he was going. Then afterwards," the girl swallowed, her eyes going to Crowley. "He turned up. Walked through the broken gates with his bag and his rebel crow feathers in his hat. He was lucky he wasn't cut down."

"I heard what happened." Crowley murmured to his knees. "Saw survivors on the road. Deserted, drugged the sentry at the rebel's camp. Wanted to help."

"He did." The girl said. "Saved so many of the injured. Worked all night. So when the Queen's men came in the morning we took his uniform, cut off his feathers and pretended he was one of us. The Queen's men conscripted him on the spot. Better than lynching him, I guess."

"Yeah. Guess so." Crowley rubbed his knees again. He'd half hoped the town's folk would cut him down. The first war had been a blur of anger and disillusionment. Of wanting a way out, but never being brave enough to take it. 

Tadfield had given his rage an excuse to murder the last of his fear. 

That was all. The war had been over. Crowley needed to leave the defeated rebel army. He'd been watching his own back really. 

Ginny tilted her head at him, but he didn't dare meet the truth in her eyes. 

"I'm Pepper." The girl held out her hand. "Thank you."

Crowley curled his fingers on his thigh, then took her hand. "Crowley."

"I know."

Aziraphale sniffed. Tears tracked over his cheeks. 

"Stop it," Crowley said. "You aren't angry?" 

"About what?" Aziraphale ran a hand over his eyes.

"That I was a rebel?" 

"Oh, my darling. Look at yourself. The black clothes, the very expensive red bands on your cuffs and collar. The way you question everything, especially authority. Your complete disregard for rules. That you'd rather stay in bed and pay a fine than attend morning service, and the only image of the Queen you have anywhere is that preliminary sketch in the shop's distillery." Aziraphale beamed at him through the last of his tears. 

"Yeah, well, I liked the artist. Couldn't afford the finished piece." Crowley shrugged. Hope fluttered back to life in his heart. It was going to be OK. 

"Well maybe if you went to service and put all the money you saved from fines in a money box you could!" Aziraphale's voice rose. "I'm not an idiot, Crowley. I've known, well suspected for a while that you were a rebel, before I found you again at least."

"Ha!" Crowley nearly laughed. 

Aziraphale's smile lit up Crowley's heart. "Her Majesty knows I'm not proud of my past too, and so do you."

"Yeah," Crowley said again. He'd held Aziraphale while he'd confessed it too, and watched how the angel of vengeance had become an angel of mercy amidst the dying in the field hospital. 

Still, there was a sting deep down beneath Crowley's relief at being accepted. He hadn't been proud of what the rebels had done in Tadfield. Or a great many of their other choices during the war, and although he felt no loyalty to them, he had even less loyalty for the Queen’s men. Crowley was not ashamed of rebelling in the first place, not against an absent monarch who'd allowed her representatives to become corrupt and unjust. Not that at least. 

The words were there, like stones in his mouth, but Aziraphale still smiled. Crowley's stomach twisted and he swallowed the stones back down. 

They'd both made choices. Arguing did nothing but back Aziraphale into a corner. Make him more scared and stubborn. 

"This is a beautiful moment," Pepper said dryly. "Can we get my friend off the floor now?" 

"Don't suppose he has a name too, does he?" 

"Of course he does." She folded her arms. "And it's none of your business."

"And after our emotional reunion too!" Crowley clicked his tongue. "Help me get him up then."

They negotiated the young man up the narrow stairs to Crowley's bedroom. Between them they rolled him on to the bed. The dog, silent and steady, came in after them. It leaped straight onto the covers settling its body against the length of the boy's. 

Crowley's noise of protest died in his throat. The dog showed no intention of moving, and Pepper no intention of asking it to. 

Aziraphale was no help either, the fussy little angel, fluffed the pillows and tucked the boy in, batting the dog away as it tried to lick him. 

Fluffy hissed her displeasure at that. 

Pepper refused to leave the boy and settled herself in a corner to sharpen one of the many knives which hung about her person. 

Crowley went to fetch her some cushions and a draft of willow bark. Pepper took it, sniffing cautiously. 

Crowley tutted, snatched the cup back and took a mouthful. "If I wanted to poison you, kid, I wouldn't be so unimaginative." He handed the cup back. "Just drink up, will you? You feel fine now because you're still pumped full of adrenalin. By the time the dawn bells ring, every single scrape and bruise you picked up tonight are going to sting like buggery."

"You'd know about that, would you?" Pepper looked pointedly between him and Aziraphale and lifted her eyebrow. The cheeky little wench. She drank her medicine while Crowley valiantly tried not to splutter. 

Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley's arm, effectively stopping the witty and suitably vulgar come back Crowley was just on the verge of coming up with. As soon as his brain recovered from the shock.

"We'll be just downstairs," Aziraphale said. "Do try and get some sleep, if you can. We promise not to try any funny business."

Pepper lifted her other eyebrow. It rather suggested that she would be quite amused by any of the 'funny business' the two of them might try. 

Crowley couldn't decide if he admired her nerve or wanted to throttle her. 

"Funny business," Crowley grumbled as he and Aziraphale bustled out of the bedroom and into the hallway. "Do you ever listen to yourself?" 

Aziraphale huffed. "We appear to be covered in blood again. I should go home and change. Before someone sees."

"It's still early. I was going to open another bottle. Easier to stay drunk now than face the hangover." Or the reality of what had just happened and what it probably meant. 

"Oh!" Aziraphale hesitated. "That does sound… No, sorry, my dear, I must get a wiggle on. Gabriel gave me something important to be getting on with."

"Anything interesting?" 

More interesting than who was currently sleeping off a leg wound in Crowley's bed? 

Crowley saw the exact moment Aziraphale decided to lie. The worry lines pulled his brows together and tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Nothing of interest at all. I'd tell you if it were, wouldn't I? I'll pop back later though to check up on… Them. Mind how you go." 

He clattered down the steps, fingers frantically patting his pockets. 

Well, that was a thing. 

Another thing that apparently they weren't going to talk about. 

The shop's door slammed. 

Aziraphale scuttled across the courtyard, the early morning light casting a hazy glow over the refuse that had fallen off the night soil cart and Madame's customers, shamefully making their way home. 

Had Aziraphale been in a less frantic mood he would have made it a point to say a weighted  _ good morning  _ to every single one of them. 

It was something Madame had often had to speak to him about. 

Aziraphale was currently so distracted he nearly forgot to hold the door open for Fluffy in his rush. She scooted over the threshold and jumped onto the desk, skidding slightly on the scattered papers. 

"Aziraphale! Is it…?" 

Aziraphale wrestled the amulet from his pocket and dropped it onto the open books on his desk. "I think so."

He was too panicked to find his tinderbox so lit the lamps with a few hastily chosen words. They spluttered dreadfully, half of them going straight back out again, but the one above his desk remained sulkily alight. 

Aziraphale put on his glasses and approached the desk cautiously. Fluffy batted the amulet with her front paw, flipping it so they could see the angel wings carved on the back. The thing was so full of magic it made Aziraphale's fingertips tingle. 

"Royal insignia means nothing," Aziraphale muttered idly twisting at his ring. "They slap it on everything."

"Not everything has this much power though." Fluffy sniffed the metal cautiously. “And you have to admit, it all is rather suspicious."

Aziraphale began sifting through the books on his desk. "We can test it, I'm sure we can. Ask it what it is somehow?" 

"Yes!" Fluffy hopped over the books and used her front paw to turn a page. "This book, I've seen something…" 

Aziraphale moved round the table to help her with the pages. "Here, look." He ran his index finger under the words. "How would you describe the object? Amulet? Charm?" 

Fluffy sniffed it. "Amulet. Charms seem more delicate."

"And we want to know…?" 

"Who it belongs to." Fluffy jumped onto Aziraphale's shoulder as he sat down in his chair. "It could help us find out if the boy in the apothecary is who we fear."

"Right." Aziraphale pushed up his sleeves and placed his palms either side of the amulet. He cleared his mind letting only the words needed for the spell fill it. 

Nerves made a valiant effort to sneak back in and he pushed them ruthlessly away. He formed the question, reshuffling the words and adding politeness. When he was satisfied Aziraphale spoke them out loud, breathing life and shape into them. Power took form, dragging him into the undertow of something bigger. The amulet began to spin. The pages of the books ruffled as a wind tore across the desk, plucking at Aziraphale's hair and clothes. He gripped the desk. Fluffy pushed her head tight against his. The glow was too bright, but Aziraphale fought to keep his eyes open. The amulet stopped spinning. It burst open. Power shot out from it in a bright column. 

It was confused. 

Aziraphale felt a power older than anything he'd touched before. Crooked and deep and certain. And weary. So very tired with the weight of responsibility. Then loss, as though that had been ripped away. Transformed into something sharp, fresh and diamond hard. 

If anything this was more terrifying than the old power. It was keen and it stared back at Aziraphale hard enough to flay him open. A young man's power. Curious and cock sure. 

Then it blinked out, replaced by fierce protectiveness. It had fangs. It growled. 

Aziraphale pushed back in his chair as it rushed towards him, rushed through him and evaporated like mist. He was left disorientated and breathless as the shop swam back into focus. The amulet snapped shut. 

"The Lost Prince," Aziraphale gasped. "It has to be him. This was the Queen's and now it was his." He glanced across the street to the light still flickering in the apothecary's window. "But why would a Royal need an amulet for his familiar to hold shape?" The dog was the familiar. The blue light in it's eyes had betrayed that from the first.

The bookshop was silent. Aziraphale's shoulder was devoid of Fluffy's comforting weight. 

He jumped out of his chair, frantically searching. Fluffy had fallen to the floor, her white patches of fur the only part of her clearly visible in the shadows beneath the desk. 

Aziraphale dropped to his knees. His heart raced. Fluffy was limp in his hands, but her pulse fluttered bravely against his fingers. 

"Fluffy!" Aziraphale laid her on his lap, stroking her head. 

It looked as though she couldn't quite see him. The light in her eyes was icy pale. "The door," she breathed. 

The shop's door rattled under the force of official knocking. 

"We're closed!" Aziraphale wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. "That door, Fluffy?" 

Her eyes were closed.

"Fell! Doctor Arch requests your presence immediately." It did not sound like a request. 

Aziraphale's fingers tightened on Fluffy's fur. He looked up at the amulet on the table. "Fuck," he breathed. 

Both the kids were asleep. Tadfield Girl had dozed off sitting up, facing the door and her back resting against the bed. Crowley thought about taking the knife from her hand, but he didn't want to risk it being accidently sheathed in his guts if he woke her up. 

Plus the beast of a dog was awake. It looked tired, more insubstantial than it had earlier, but its eyes tracked him around the room. 

Crowley stuck a note to the inside of the door and retreated slowly from the room. No point locking the door. If they wanted to escape they'd find a way. Hopefully without ripping open Sleeping Beauty's stitches. He left the shop with his bag slung over his shoulder and Ginny draped around his neck. 

Crowley needed to do something. Something that wasn't confronting Aziraphale. Not that a blazing row wouldn't make him feel better, but it'd be more productive to indulge in that with someone else. Someone that the stakes were considerably lower with. 

Crowley glanced at the bookshop as they headed into the court towards the back door of Madame's. She'd be livid if customers saw an apothecary going through the front and it started rumours about her house not being clean. 

Crowley slipped down an alley and through the kitchen. The air was moist with steam and rich with the scent of stewing meat. He snatched an apple from the bowl on the sideboard, because some habits are harder to break than others, and headed up the backstairs. 

After finding an unoccupied employee and convincing her he really wasn't interested in _ that  _ at all, thank you very much, he was directed to Broken Arm Girl's room, which was as high up in the house as it was possible to be, without actually being in the attic. 

She already had company. Beardy Man sat patiently on a stool, hands neatly in his lap and ankles together while Broken Arm Girl strode up and down the room, her good arm waving about as she spoke. 

She stopped and glared at Crowley. "Can we help you?" 

Beardy tutted. Crowley squinted at him, hoping to catch another glimpse of his oddly familiar blue eyes, but his head was in shadow. 

"Hoping to help you," Crowley said to Broken Arm Girl, hopefully soon to be Mended Arm Girl. "Take a seat."

She sat, adjusting her glasses to glower at him properly. Crowley put down his bag as the room's door burst open again. 

" _ Doctor,"  _ Madame strode in skirt swishing and bosom heaving, "what a surprise."

"Not here to see you and don't need an audience," Crowley muttered, kneeling by the bed so he could take off the bandages around Broken Arm Girl's head. "And not a doctor. Doctors get paid. Here." He put a pillow under the arm to support it. "Take the pressure of the sling off your shoulder while you're sitting down."

Ginny had wriggled down to the floor. Her tongue flickered as she worked her way towards Beardy, tasting the air. 

Madame swiftly stepped in her path. Ginny reared up, head tilting to one side. Madame pretended not to notice. "Can I get you a glass of something, doctor?" 

"On the house?" 

"On the house. Seeing as you don't get paid."

Crowley grinned. "I'll have that claret you've been hiding away." 

He didn't get paid, but there was an intricate level of cheques and balances that wove through the entire courtyard community, and seeing as Crowley wasn't interested in the main service of the house he'd learned his way around Madame's booze cellar. 

Madame opened the door, filled her lungs and bellowed the order down the corridor. "On it's way, love." She shut the door and refused to leave. 

Crowley nodded and began to carefully cut away Broken Arm Girl's bandages. Ginny had come back to coil around his feet. Her muscles tightened, squeezing his ankle tight. Crowley stopped cutting in case he nicked skin. He glanced down to meet Ginny's eyes, burning with magic light. 

"OK?" 

"Not sure." Ginny tucked her head against his leg. A movement in the corner of the room caught Crowley's attention. Beardy was sitting back down. When had he gotten up? And had it been as a result of whatever had scared Ginny? 

"Excuse me," Broken Arm Girl said angrily. 

"Course." Crowley continued cutting. Whatever it was his priority now was to check how the skin was healing and wrap it up again as soon as possible. 

The best he could do for the arm was leave it well alone. 

Crowley nearly cut off his own thumb when a shout from the courtyard below rattled the window. "This is an illegal and disorderly house!" 

"In Her name! Does the man not understand subtlety!" Madame hitched her bosom and flung open the window, leaning out and glaring down into the yard. "Shout louder, sergeant! The people in the cheap seats didn't hear you!" 

"Go on with ye, harlot! It's all free advertisin'!" Sergeant Shadwell of the City Watch hollered back. 

"Oh, Sergeant S, you silly!" Madame giggled girlishly. It was a spectacle to freeze the blood. 

Crowley glanced at Broken Arm Girl in horror. "Are they flirting?" 

"Best not think about it." She winced, either from pain or the disturbing idea of the sergeant being amorous with, well, anyone. 

"Explains how this place has stayed open so long," Crowley muttered as Madame closed the window. 

"This place has stayed open so long because it's clean, well run and excellently managed," Madame said proudly. 

"Customer always comes first, aye?" Crowley  _ heard _ Ginny's eye roll. 

"Very good. I'll put that on our next publicity pamphlet." Madame's face was stony. "Gird your loins people, the sergeant is coming up and he brings news!" 

Crowley was then treated to the oddly terrifying experience of Madame preening. She ruffled her hair and draped herself over a fainting couch, producing a fan from somewhere and snapping it open. 

She needn't have rushed. They were on the top floor and the sergeant was not a young man. When he'd finally creaked his way up the last flight of stairs there was a good solid minute of silence where he, presumably, was on the landing bent double and getting his breath back. 

When the door finally opened he swaggered in with all the fabricated authority bestowed on the unworthy by a badge and less than shiny breast plate. 

'Sergeant!" Madame cooed, welcome to our little salon."

"Didnae ken the sawbones would be here." Shadwell shot Crowley a distrustful look. 

"She says we can trust him," Broken Arm Girl said. "Or, at least, if we want to trust him, the best thing to do is trust him. He'll come right in the end."

"Herself is still making as much sense as a bag o' ferrets, I see."

"Hush, you. She can hear you." Madame slapped Shadwell with the fan. It looked coquettish, but the crack of it delivered a very real reprimand. 

Shadwell winced, gripping his arm. 

Crowley decided the whole pantomime was above his pay grade, especially as he wasn't actually getting paid. He pulled the jar of paste he'd prepared earlier out of his bag, and began to gently administer it to the bruising on Broken Arm Girl's temple. 

The arnica had been perfect when he'd cut and dried it. The resulting paste he'd made this morning had shown some magical degradation, but that was to be expected. 

Something was not quite right though. The energy of the plants was weak. Barely a flicker. Crowley put on more than he'd normally use to compensate and began wrapping the wound up again. 

Ginny hissed, right in his ear. "An escape, from the Marshgate prison. Listen."

Crowley looked back up, tuning into the conversation buzzing around him. 

"The Inquisitorial Guards moved more sharpish than we bargained for. It were a success, but they never did arrive at the safe house." Shadwell looked at Crowley. 

The whole room looked at Crowley. 

He wet his lips and finished tying the bandage. "I think I'm done here."

"You're just getting started," Broken Arm Girl said stubbornly. "She has foreseen it."

"She? _ She?  _ Are you actually talking about Her Majesty?" This was bad. This was very bad. He should have gone and fought with Aziraphale after all. Crowley began shoving things back into his bag. 

"She talks to me," Broken Arm Girl said with all the rock hard certainty of a completely crazy person. 

Crowley laughed. It died with his growing awareness of the magpie feathers in the room. In Madame's hair and on the Sargent's sleeve. More stylised than the ones Tadfield Girl had been wearing but still, definitely  _ a thing.  _

He'd seen this particular brand of hopeful defiance in the inns and dives right before Prince Beelzebub walked into that church. The clenched jaws and fanatical shine to the eyes. They'd be singing and flag waving in a minute if he let them. 

"I wasn't here." Crowley got up. "I heard none of this." He hadn't even got his drink. The fear was too loud in his head though. He had to get out. 

"You're going to need our help, love," said Madame. "If you want to keep him safe."

There was a very specific way Madame said  _ him  _ that made Crowley feel all kinds of terrified and exposed. 

"'E got called in ter see that Doctor Arch," Shadwell said. "Saw 'em leaving when I arrived in the yard."

"He works for Doctor Arch, and me keeping him safe means staying away from whatever mad heresy or conspiracy this is! I'm not a rebel," Crowley protested. 

This was met with many smirks and raised eyebrows. Beardy Man actually laughed. It was fond and amused, and a touch sad. 

In Her bloody name! Did everyone know? "I'm not now!" 

This time someone actually scoffed. Crowley suspected it was Ginny. 

Alright, so Crowley was a rebel. 

He'd treat Madame's girls for free and make up the cost by over charging those who could afford it. He brewed moonshine to avoid paying the Celestial Council more taxes than he thought they deserved. He refused to join the Occult College because he'd rather hike to the woods for ingredients that actually worked than pay for the privilege and pretension of flashy ready made imports. 

But that didn't mean he wanted another war. That he'd condone people dying for the ego of another puffed up pretender who thought they knew best what everybody else wanted.

People just wanted to live. For the most part they didn't care who was in charge as long as food carts arrived on time and the night soil was taken away.

"You're all mad," Crowley whispered. "I don't know whether the Queen is really dead, or if She just doesn't care, but She's not talking to this dopey bint." He jabbed a finger at Broken Arm Girl. 

"Even if I'm the only one who will listen?" Broken Arm Girl raised her eyebrow. "She says she understands and forgives you and still loves you, by the way."

Crowley made a noise that, to his abject mortification, sounded like a dying cat. "I am done here." He hefted his bag onto his shoulder. "Until two weeks time when I'm gonna come back and check that arm. If you manage to keep it still attached to the rest of you!" Crowley left very quickly, making a point of slamming the door. 


End file.
